


As a ship tossed by contrary wind

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Silmarillion Prompts [34]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (shh it's an awesome shipname just roll with it), Banter and Boners and Boats, Foreshadowing, Implicit Explicit Content, Light Angst, M/M, Sibling Incest, Swanboat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 15:50:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7321282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finarfin takes Feanor on a swanship tour, but is not prepared for Feanor's level of nerdery or the heavy, foreshadowing irony this will entail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As a ship tossed by contrary wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegreatpumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/gifts).



> 0\. I wouldn’t have been able to pull this one off without Silje's help, who started with ‘…what if you put swanboat…in a boat’ and proceeded from there to craft the perfect setup for me to run with.

“It is a very fine boat,” said Fëanáro, his eyes alight as he ran his hands over the gunwales and investigated the seamless joints of the boards in the deck.

“Yes,” said Arafinwë, with a faint smile. “She is a very fine ship indeed.”

If Fëanáro registered the gentle correction, he ignored it. “How long does it take to build one of these?”

“It depends on the size of the crew and the resources to hand.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Well, my dear,” said Arafinwë, leaning against the mast and letting the salt wind tangle his hair and tug at the long belt at his waist, “You ask questions whose answers are proprietary in nature. And which I do not always have, not being a shipwright myself.”

“So is that a can’t answer, or won’t answer?” Fëanáro looked at Arafinwë shrewdly.

Arafinwë smiled again, and opted for no answer.

“Typical,” said Fëanáro under his breath, and went below to investigate the cabins.

Arafinwë followed him. “You of all people can understand that certain craft secrets might be held close to the chest. Do you not appreciate that I gained you access to the ship at all, to sate your unquenchable curiosity?”

“I appreciate endlessly your impulse to sate me,” said Fëanáro, examining a beam. “Do they use wooden pegs, or nails, or – ahh, you won’t tell me, you insufferable waif. Do you take pleasure in inscrutability, brother? Is an uncanny smile your equivalent of tented breeches, you foam-haired, wave-riding, clam-digging – ” His litany was stifled as he found his elbow pulled around by a gentle but irresistible force, and a tall, slim body pressed him against the hull of the ship.

“You know how susceptible I am to various pleasures,” said Arafinwë softly. “Inscrutability is one of the lesser ones, which pales in comparison with more immediate temptations.” His hand slipped inexorably down Fëanáro’s body. “Though I must invert the question and inquire if unnecessarily long lists of insults lead to _your_ tenting of breeches.” He palmed Fëanáro lightly, and Fëanáro let out a hiss. “You enjoy the sound of your own voice too much,” Arafinwë informed Fëanáro, and Fëanáro laughed, even as he pushed his hips against Arafinwë’s thigh.

“I’ve been told my voice is one of my most effective methods of arousal,” he said, his eyes bright and intense. “Have you ever wondered if I could get you off with it alone?”

“I have,” murmured Arafinwë, “but I never have the patience for the experiment. I have conducted one of my own that I have discovered to be rather effective though,” he lowered his voice and pressed his lips to Fëanáro’s ear, “ _brother_.”

Fëanáro growled at the word. “You mistake rage for arousal.”

“I do not think I do,” said Arafinwë mildly and stepped back, nodding courteously at Fëanáro’s groin, which had grown impressive.

“You were fondling me at the time, idiot,” said Fëanáro. “Too many factors to call that a controlled experiment.”

“No experiment with you is controlled, cherished half-brother of mine,” said Arafinwë, and turned away. “Do you wish to see the main cabin?”

Fëanáro was not known for his weakness of will, and it was with all due admiration that Arafinwë observed his continued perusal of the ship despite a state of physical arousal that with lesser men might have proved difficult to walk. Instead Fëanáro continued with his relentless questions, his hands never ceasing in their movement over planks and sails and rigging alike.

So they continued the tour of the ship, Fëanáro’s interest unabated, questions and backhanded compliments about the craftsmanship flying as swiftly from his tongue as sparks from beneath a hammer. Arafinwë soon grew rather tired of the endless ship trivia, though not of the way Fëanáro’s eyes blazed, bright and eager, nor the ceaseless movement of his strong hands over the wood.

“You know,” said Arafinwë at last, “I confess my interest in seafaring vessels is more in the realm of enjoying their travel than in their construction. It is Eärwen who is better versed in their mechanics.”

“Perhaps I should have brought her along instead,” said Fëanáro, his eyes narrow as he inspected a coiled pile of rope.

“Perhaps you should have,” said Arafinwë, not pointing out that he had been the one to bring Fëanáro along. “We honeymooned on this very ship, after all, and she knows it well.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I think,” said Fëanáro, turning back to Arafinwë with a look in his eyes that made Arafinwë step back a pace, his breath quickening. “That I would like to see the main cabin again.”

 

* * *

 

The luxurious berth that had been the bridal suite had different linens now, but the light was as Arafinwë remembered it, the flicker and reflection of waves on the blond wood of the ceiling. He lay still on the tangled sheets and watched the light, half hypnotized, as Fëanáro’s hand moved carelessly over his bare chest and Fëanáro’s head came to rest briefly on his shoulder. Arafinwë squeezed his eyes closed and wound an arm tightly around his older brother, burying his hand in that black hair, now disheveled from their exertions. Fëanáro’s lips found his neck, his shoulder; Fëanáro’s thumb pulled roughly over his nipple; Fëanáro made low sounds of contentment into Arafinwë’s hair, and Arafinwë’s body ached with happiness and spent pleasure.

But all too soon, Fëanáro was pulling away, as he always did, his eyes already alight with other passions, and Arafinwë tried to swallow around his disappointment as Fëanáro began a new litany of questions.

“How does one cook on these things?” he asked, bending down to pull his trousers back on as Arafinwë tried to tear his gaze from the flickering reflections of light on the ceiling. “Ships, I mean. I feel there are distinct hazards to heated cooking on such structures. Do you not worry about an open flame – ”

The reflections of light on the ceiling shattered, and Arafinwë choked on his breath.

 

_Black was smoke pouring from white, cracked hulls._

_Flaming arrows, sketched against an unnaturally dark, ugly sky; dirty, oily water swirling at his ankles; smoke in his lungs and blood drenching the hem of his white robes; gasps and frantic cries tearing his throat as he called out for his children, and over it all, a wild, fey laugh, and a distant ship –_

_\- A distant flame –_

 

“ – in an essentially pure wooden structure, prone to sudden and frequent changes in position? What if coals spilled during a swell? I mean, I suppose you have no shortage of water with which to extinguish it, but – Arafinwë?” Fëanáro frowned, taking in Arafinwë’s sudden pallor and shallow breathing. “You look ill. Surely one cannot get seasick when one is at a mooring. Aren’t you used to the waves?”

Arafinwë did not answer, and Fëanáro leaned back to lay a cool hand to Arafinwë’s cheek. “Don’t tell me you are having wedding night flashbacks.” Fëanáro’s words were mocking, but his voice was soft. In another man, there might have been concern in it.

Arafinwë managed a smile. “I find myself a bit light-headed,” he said. “It will pass.”

“No wonder,” said Fëanáro, turning away, and Arafinwë felt bereft at the loss of his hands. “We should have eaten before we engaged in more athletic pursuits – I always say one needs proper energy for such things.” He stood, fully clothed, and made to leave.

Arafinwë, still naked in the bed he had first shared with Eärwen, still with the marks of his brother’s teeth on his throat, took longer to finally sit up, push back the sheets, and stoop to retrieve his clothes. There was a faint mark, like a burn, on the collar of his robes, and a dark stain at the hem – but when Arafinwë blinked, they were gone.

He looked up, and Fëanáro was gone, too.


End file.
